


Grimmons Prompts v2

by LegendaryBard



Series: Ten One-Word Prompts [5]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Temple of Procreation (Red vs. Blue)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 14:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15632337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Some short little Grimmons prompts, based on a random word generator.( Part 2 )





	Grimmons Prompts v2

**Author's Note:**

> Anything relating to the Temple of Procreation is under the prompt "Temporary" - there's no overtly non-con theming, as in, in this story any sexual activity is consensual AND only implied ( so it's SFW ), but the whole idea of the Temple is pretty iffy, and could be read as "non-consensual consent"; if this bothers you, feel free to not read or skip that section. 
> 
> If you want to skip it, when you finish reading "Point" go straight to "Dive". 
> 
> Stay safe out there.

 

**NIGHTMARE**

Grif bolts upright, snapping from sleep to awake far too swiftly. The nightmare sits with him, heavy in his stomach, constricting his chest and snatching the sleep from him. 

The alarm clock glares, accusingly, from across the room- 3:57. It's the only spot of light from within- there's no windows in the barracks, and the bottom of the door doesn't have a gap to let light seep through. 

Grif sags, head falling to the pillow. The aftershock of the dream hasn't worn off. Kai and Simmons under a hail of gunfire- his old squadron, slaughtered by aliens- lots of blood and gore, and while he doesn't actually remember it too well ( isn't that a bitch? His heart is racing and he doesn't even remember all the details of his bad dream ) he's still breathing shaky and he can feel his heart thumping in terror. 

Without any warning, Simmons makes a disgusting snorting sound in his sleep.

While his terror doesn't instantly evaporate, the noise does make Grif feel the slightest bit better. That asshole’s still alive. It's okay. 

Grif rolls onto his side, adjusting the blankets, and tries to be practical while his fear ebbs. He has to at least  _ pretend  _ to wake up at 0600, then eat breakfast, and avoid doing work; he was planning on scouting the other side of the canyon for shady napping spots today. 

It's a while before he can get back to sleep, but once he does, it's a dreamless snooze only broken by the sound of Simmons whining and Sarge yelling. 

As it should be. 

 

**BEACH**

They don't get vacation days very much. A small fraction every year; barely even one a month.

They stockpile. Sarge makes sure  _ no one  _ uses up the vacation time, and by the time they get their base in Valhalla, they have weeks saved up.

Winter rolls around, bitterly cold, and Sarge is obviously stricken with joint pain. He shuffles around the base with an arthritic stiffness to his motions; he yells more and moves less. Grif takes particular pleasure in getting yelled at and causing Sarge pain whenever he inevitably gets up to hit the orange marine with the butt of his gun. Simmons does not tell Grif off, despite the urge to do his utmost to please a superior. 

Donut is the one to ease the tension. He suggests that they all take a vacation to de-stress and get a break from one another; he soothes Sarge’s initial prickliness to the idea by saying Lopez will stay behind and make sure Caboose isn't up to anything. Lopez seems enthusiastic about being left alone, and although Sarge clearly doesn't like it, he reluctantly concedes they can  _ maybe  _ take a few days off somewhere sunny. 

They don't return to Earth, like Simmons had been privately hoping, but some beach on Valhalla’s planet. It's nice enough. Warm skies, soft sand, a sea of green-blue waves, and swaying foliage that’s close to Earth palm trees. 

They rent two beach houses- one for Simmons and Grif, the other for Sarge and Donut. They're fairly cozy- only two rooms in the whole house. There’s a main room that serves as a bedroom, living room, kitchen,  _ and  _ storage, and a single bathroom. 

It's on their second day that Simmons notices Grif already awake at six AM, willingly, which is unusual. He’s on the beach house’s porch in his swim trunks, and nothing else; his belly pools onto his thighs, and he’s unapologetic in the baring of his moobs to the world. 

His coils are loose, his hair fluffy and free rather than ensnared in his usual messy ponytail. Grif never lets his hair down. 

It looks… Good. 

Simmons throws on a T-shirt and burrows out from his blanket. He sits next to Grif, whose toes are dug into the sand. He stares pensively out at the water. 

Simmons can't take it. He clears his throat. 

“What's up, dumbass?” 

That shakes Grif out of it. He glances at Simmons, lips tight. 

“It's kinda like…” He flops his hand, half-heartedly, towards the ocean. 

“... Home.” 

_ Oh.  _

“Hey, uh, wanna try to drown Sarge later?” Simmons offers. The transition is terrible, but that's the only thing that he could think of to cheer Grif up. 

The sand looks orange and inviting in the rays of dawn. The waves curl, reflecting red. Gulls- or whatever passes for them on this crazy planet- begin to wheel in the sky, calling to one another. Grif turns to Simmons, and his eyelids are half-closed, basking in the beach. 

“ _ Fuck _ yeah, dude.”

 

**JOB**

Grif really hates his job. 

He hates getting shot at. He hates shooting people. He hates Sarge. He hates getting up at 6 AM. He hates sprints and squats and cleaning guns and CQC training, and any ridiculous bullshit Sarge makes them do. He hates the adventures they go on- bullshit time travel that apparently wasn't real, Freelancer nonsense like with Texas and the Meta and Washington ( God he LOATHED Washington after the fifth time he was forced to profess his love for “the boys” and “ribbons in his hair” ) and now this Freelancer chick, Carol or whatever, forcing impressment upon them and jerking them around on some ill-fated revenge mission. 

Yeah, Grif hates his job. Hot canyons and psychotic sergeants, Church’s deaths and MREs- it all fucking sucks and if he were allowed, he would've quit after Basic. 

But it could be worse. He knows it could be worse. He could not have Simmons. 

There's some quote or something that's like, “being miserable with someone else is better than being miserable alone, because you can complain to someone about it.” That's their relationship. Sarge is doing something astronomically ridiculous, they complain and bitch about it when he’s not around. The Freelancers are being grade-A dickholes, Grif and Simmons snark behind their back. They've come up with some good ones about the blue girl while they're on the road and have nothing to do. 

It's companionship, okay? And Grif is weak. He’s weak and flawed like any human, so he accepts Simmons as his closest friend so he won’t go out of his mind with boredom. Despite Simmons’s nasally tone, his cutting jealousy, his blatant daddy issues, his nerdspeak, his inferiority complex, the need to suck up to a superior to feel complete- Simmons makes being a soldier so much easier, and all Grif has to do is just… Accept him, good and bad. He acknowledges Simmons’ multitude of flaws and lets him soothe the ache of their damn job through… Ugh, it sounds gross and cheesy to say, but,  _ friendship.  _

They have different personalities, but they mesh well and Simmons does what no one else has done for Grif: He accepts Grif’s own flaws. Laziness, filthiness, rudeness, cynicism, spite. Grif figures that Simmons must find  _ some  _ relief from their hell job in Grif’s company, if he's willing to swallow all that just for the sake of having someone to talk to. 

It's past Blood Gulch and Rat’s Nest when Grif realizes that maybe they're more than acquaintances. Friends doesn't fit right either. He doesn't know what they are. 

They don't do anything crazy like kiss or hold hands, and Simmons squeals like an indignant pig the one time Grif tries to sleep in the same bedroll as him ( FOR WARMTH, he feels the need to add ). But they're more than friends. It's deeper than brotherhood, something more spiritual, a union greater than an alliance of hating their CO or job. 

Grif practices saying “I love you” when he’s alone, testing the way it shapes his mouth and makes him feel. 

He wastes a few minutes trying different inflections, and ends up feeling like a goddamn tool. He gives up. He gets a ten minute nap in before the Freelancer chick finds him and threatens to kick his ass. 

Grif gets into the Warthog with Simmons, the door slamming shut and engine growling to life. He thinks about saying something while they're alone together- putting that  _ I love you  _ practice to use- but he doesn't. Not the right time. Not the right place. Not the right feelings or words. 

“She's scary,” Simmons stage-whispers, barely audible, as the blue Freelancer marches back to her jeep.

God, Grif hates his job.

 

**UNDERTAKE**

Trying to get Grif to do anything is a massive undertaking. He's more conniving and clever than anyone gives him credit for. He physically evades work, deflects responsibility with just the right questions, and manipulates others to doing work for him. 

None of this is particularly malicious, but it is annoying. Simmons asks for the umpteenth time that Grif stop leaving snack wrappers in his bed and Grif starts putting them on Simmons’s in retaliation, and they start yelling at one another over it.

Simmons tells him  _ this  _ is why nobody will ever have sex with Grif, he’s too gross and nobody wants to get granola crumbs up their asscrack, and he needs to fucking wash his sheets, because the bedding might be classified as a biohazard.

“Why does that matter? We only fuck in your bed, anyway.” Grif counters, obtusely.

Convincing Simmons to sleep with him again after that is an undertaking in its own right. 

 

**POINT**

“Ow!” Simmons yips.

Grif glances over at the cyborg- Simmons is clutching his flesh hand, a droplet of blood beading on the pad of his thumb. 

“Knives are sharp, genius,” Grif says, wryly, pouring himself some cereal. 

“Fuck off, Grif, this hurts!” Simmons objects. 

“Oh, boo-hoo. Want me to kiss it better?” 

Simmons does not immediately reply. His lips are pursed in thought.

“Dude,” Grif says, disbelieving. 

“I'm thinking!” Simmons responds, shrill. The droplet of blood has become a trickle, lazily rolling down his skin. “‘Cos your mouth has germs, but I  _ think  _ I read somewhere saliva has a coagulant in it-” 

“I’ll get you a band-aid,” Grif interrupts, nonplussed, and grabs his cereal on his way to the first-aid kit. 

 

**TEMPORARY**

“It’s temporary,” Simmons whimpers. “It has to be temporary. It can’t be forever.” 

“Dude,” Grif pants, “Shut up. Just- don’t talk. It makes it worse.”

The temple. The goddamn temple. Goddamn  _ Tucker,  _ Grif is going to  _ kill him.  _

“Try the fucking door again,” Grif snarls. His blood is coursing, hot and furious, through his veins. 

They can’t even “procreate”, but the temple’s carnal impulses don’t care. Warm bodies are all that matter, and Simmons… Simmons is awfully warm. Inviting. Grif keeps touching him, and so does Simmons, their hands idly attracted to hot flesh without either of their say-so. His knuckles brush against Simmons’s hip and he  _ whines,  _ the sound drilling into Grif’s ears.

“It won’t open,” Simmons bays. He sounds so whiny. So, so whiny. And Grif likes it. 

Simmons strokes Grif’s flank, seeking unconsciously for comfort, and Grif sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Something roars in his head, and when he makes eye contact with Simmons, his pupils are fat and black, nearly eclipsing the ring of green outside.

“It’s temporary,” Simmons repeats. “We just- we just have to wait until it’s over.” 

There’s barely enough room in the storage closet for a person to stand with their arms out and not touch the walls. It’s too small. They won’t last “until it’s over”. Simmons is warm and moving and Grif thinks he’s starting to lose his mind. 

“Grif,” Simmons says, urgently.

“Shut  _ up,  _ Simmons!” Grif spits. Simmons does not heed his thinly veiled warning.

“Grif, this is fucked up,” Simmons chokes. “Grif, fuck, I take back what I said- we gotta- we gotta do a plan B.” 

“Plan B? The fuck do you mean,  _ plan B?”  _ Grif finds himself enraptured by the movement of Simmons’s lips, of the way he licks them as though they’re too dry… 

He’s fascinated by the way Simmons’s undersuit collar dips with the motion of his Adam’s apple. Grif can’t tear his eyes from it even though he  _ knows  _ he should; and judging from a nearly unblinking stare, Simmons has to be suffering the same way. 

“We don’t know how long the temple’s gonna be on,” Simmons says, antsily. “I can’t  _ do  _ this-” 

Grif knows what he means. It’s goddamn  _ unbearable.  _ It’s like there’s a bunch of weasels in his brain and stomach- maybe his fucking soul- gnawing on his willpower, chipping it away. Grif doesn’t want to snap. He’s embarrassed, afraid,  _ terrified  _ of the loss of control, of what he’ll do to Simmons and what he’ll let Simmons do to him. 

Simmons lets out a miserable little sound, a dry sob. His forehead thumps repetitively against the storage closet door until Grif yells at him to stop, that  _ won’t  _ help. 

Simmons stops. 

“I get it,” Grif says. “This fucking blows dicks. But we gotta keep our heads. Keep our cool.” 

“I  _ know,”  _ Simmons says, agonized, “But what the hell can we do? Our radios don’t work, everybody else is probably struck by the temple, nobody’s coming to help us!” 

Grif exhales, shakily. 

“... This is the storage closet where Donut keeps his lotion.” 

Simmons starts, his feverish brain clicking it into place immediately. He agonizes for a moment, but it’s all pretense. Both of them have accepted their fate. 

“Where is it?” Simmons rasps. 

Grif tries to console himself with the thought that the temple is temporary, even if eternal humiliation isn’t. 

 

**DIVE**

“Wait, I thought you were scared of heights,” Simmons says. 

“Heights? Simmons, this is like,  _ twelve  _ feet. It’s not heights. Besides, I’ve done this before.” 

“You’re gonna split your skull open,” Simmons says, affronted. “You’re gonna fall on your head and I’ll have to tell Sarge to tell _ Lopez  _ to scrape up your brains. If you even  _ have  _ any in that fat head of yours.” 

“Relax,” Grif suggests. “I’ve got extra padding. I’ll be fine.” 

Simmons feels, internally, like a house cat pacing inside a carrier. He watches, lips pursed, as Grif perilously climbs to the top of the short cliff. 

They’re near Outpost 17-B- a little ways off from Red Base, far enough for Sarge to not find them- near an outcropping of rocks and a deep pool. There’s one cliff that’s over the deepest part of the pool, about twelve feet up from the surface. Grif, who can usually barely stand a two foot drop, heads up there like he’s done it a million times. 

“Are you watching, Simmons?” Grif has his hands on his hips, proudly facing the water. His orange trunks are laced tight, and sweat glimmers like rhinestones on his skin when it catches the light. Sunscreen has been liberally smeared on the stripe of Simmons’s skin that discolors his face, and nowhere else. 

Simmons wipes sweat off his brow, adjusting to sit more comfortably. He’s in the shade of a tall rock ( he burns easily, so he likes to keep out of the sun ), and, like Grif, is clad in trunks.

“I’m watching,” He calls, warily. “I’ve got my radio on hand in case you bash your head against the rocks!” 

Grif shoots him a thumbs up, then gets a running start before leaping off the cliff. He throws his arms up, whooping wildly the whole way down, until he makes his dramatic splash. An impressive wave of water is the immediate response, stray droplets managing to get as far as Simmons, who shields his face and edges away.

Grif surfaces, spitting water and grinning. 

“Your turn,” He says. 

 

**DEAD**

“That’s going to kill you,” Simmons tells him. 

Grif takes a drag from his cigarette and blows out smoke. “Like this fucking planet won’t do it first?” 

Simmons looks away. That’s… A good point. 

He and Grif sit in the shade of a tree, on an overlook with a desolate view of a ruined Chorusian city. Some of the structures are half-standing, but the majority are blown-out shells, destroyed by bombing runs.

Even from this far away, Simmons can see rusted cars and fallen bodies, clad in white or tan armor. The city is still rife with landmines and bombs, and no one wants to risk delving back in to rescue the dead.

Grif puffs on his cigarette again, and Simmons scoots towards him, a little unnerved. Their knees touch. 

Simmons really,  _ really  _ doesn’t want either of them to end up like those soldiers. 

 

**LOOK**

“Look,” Simmons says, helmet pressed to the glass. “You can see Sarge down there. Yelling.”

The transport ship rocks, and Simmons’s guts twist into knots at the initial turbulence of takeoff. It smoothes out, and so does Simmons’s stomach. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay,” Grif says, almost offhandedly. He doesn’t even bother to look out the window. 

Simmons frowns, though Grif can’t see it. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I thought you were too scared of Sarge to leave,” Grif says.

“And I thought you wouldn’t want to do any actual work,” Simmons says, “But you accepted the position of sergeant anyway.” 

“All Sarge did was boss us around,” Grif shakes his head. “I can do that. This job’s gonna be easy.” 

Simmons feels a flicker of irritation run through him.

“Yeah, well,” Simmons says, wanting to prolong the conversation but not having the strength for a full-blown argument and/or deconstruction of why Grif would make a terrible leader. 

The shady spot at the top of the canyon, with the tall tree not visible from within- the place where Simmons knew Grif hid the “good stuff” you could only get off-planet- passes by through the viewing port. Simmons watches it go with a touch of… Sadness, actually. 

There were a lot of memories made in Blood Gulch. 

Simmons glances at Grif, who’s facing away from him, trying to take a nap. 

… Not all of them were bad.

 

**SKETCH**

“How the  _ fuck  _ is that a dog?” Grif demands. 

“It’s got four legs!” Simmons objects, tapping the lumpy shapes with his pencil. 

“Five,” Grif jabs a finger at a strange protrusion in the back. 

“That’s a tail!” Simmons sounds hurt. 

Grif picks up the piece of paper, and he thrusts it out at Sarge and Donut. 

“Simmons is crap at drawing! This isn’t fair!” Grif protests. “This thing looks like a five-legged giraffe!” 

“Heh-heh. That’s what’cha get for partnering with him,” Sarge sounds pleased.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you can’t  _ draw?”  _ Grif turns back to Simmons, outraged. 

“I can draw!” 

“No, you can’t!” Grif snaps. “I hate you, Simmons.” 

At the end, Sarge and Donut win, 15 to 8. 

Grif still picks Simmons for his pictionary team the next time they play.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated. Tell me which you liked better- v1, the original, or v2, this one. 
> 
> I'd also like to know what tags you think I should have on this fic, because my 10 One Word Prompts are generally pretty barren in the tag department. 
> 
> Thank you for reading :3


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